


I've Fallen for Your Eyes (But They Don't Know Me Yet)

by haraya



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Background Male Warden/Morrigan, F/M, post-main game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/pseuds/haraya
Summary: A marriage has been arranged between King Alistair and Inquisitor Trevelyan, and everyone knows you can’t have a wedding without something old, something new, something that could invade Thedas, and something that could kill the bride.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keita52](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keita52/gifts).



> Title is from the song "Kiss Me" by Ed Sheeran.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to [buhnebeest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest) for beta-ing!

“Remind me again,” Kethra says to her advisors as they ride up the road to Vigil’s Keep, “why this was a good idea?”

_This_ being her upcoming wedding to the King of Ferelden, generously hosted by Warden-Commander Cousland at the order’s Amaranthine headquarters, as it was the most pleasant – or at least the warmest, comparatively – city in the country, as well as its being conveniently located midway between Denerim and Ostwick, where her family would be coming from. And while she was excited at the prospect of seeing everyone again – Dorian and Varric and Vivienne had all written to say they would be in attendance; and Cassandra even had agreed to officiate – she couldn’t help but be nervous at the idea that they were coming for _her wedding._

“The way I see it,” Leliana drawls from her left, in a way that could almost be described as _nonchalant_ if only Kethra hadn't known the other woman so long, “you could marry an old, washed-up Chevalier-turned-Emperor and resign yourself to learning which fork to use for each course of every single meal for the rest of your life—”

Kethra makes a face, and Cullen just _laughs,_ that bastard – he ought to be grateful that he's riding on Josephine’s other side where she couldn’t reach over to smack him upside the head.

Leliana ignores them, continuing: “—or you could marry a young, fit Warden-King and resign yourself to learning the intricacies of cheese-tasting and mabari-raising.”

“I’d go with the mabari, myself,” Cullen offers, smug and completely unhelpful.

Kethra lets out a disgusted noise and exaggeratedly rolls her eyes in Cullen's direction. _“Dog lords.”_

“Kennels and _kennels_ of them, Inquisitor,” he adds in reply.

“Get out of my sight, filthy Fereldan peasant,” Kethra says in her best Orlesian accent, falling into the easy banter they'd struck up in the years since the Breach was shut.

“There is also the consideration of your dancing skills,” Josephine interjects from her right. “Or, should I say, your lack thereof—”

“Well, excuse _you_ —”

“—in light of which, I believe, a marriage to King Alistair of Ferelden would be the better, nay, the only choice,” Josephine finishes with a dainty nod.

“Not to mention,” Cullen adds, uncharacteristically enjoying their politically-bent discussion for the day, “the rumors. About Warden stamina.”

“What?” Kethra sputters.

“Warden. Stamina.” Cullen repeats very seriously, before trying – and failing – to hide a grin. “Inquisitor.”

“Wait. Let me process this.” She rubs her temples before she looks from one adviser to another, all three of them with different levels of smugness on their faces. “You're telling me to get married to the King of Ferelden on the basis of, one, because he isn't Gaspard, two, his extensive mabari collection, and three, _my lack of skills in Orlesian dancing?”_ She looks to each one in turn, noting their amused – but still entirely earnest – expressions.

“And Warden stamina,” Cullen adds.

“There is also the basis of recent threats to the stability of the Inquisition as an independent organization, the worst of which may likely be quelled by forging an alliance with a sovereign nation,” Josephine says evenly, reminding her why she had agreed to this in the first place. “But very well, let's go with that. Warden stamina.”

Kethra sighs. The two years since Corypheus' defeat had mostly been peaceful, especially with their victory still fresh in people's minds. However, as the last of the rifts were closed and the Inquisition showed no signs of disbanding or even slowing down, the surrounding nations grew more suspicious by the day.

“And marriage is the way to go? Why can't we just draft up a treaty or something? Save someone's life and play on their unending gratitude? You know, the usual way?”

“Without the threat of the Breach, our legitimacy as an organization is too unstable to salvage with something as flimsy as a written contract or as nebulous as gratitude, Inquisitor,” Josephine tells her calmly. “If we want to retain our strength and most of our assets, this alliance needs to be more… permanent.”

Kethra sighs, rubbing her temples, and tries to calm the galloping pace of her heart and the uneasy flicker of the anchor as the solid grey hulk of the Vigil appears on the horizon.

 

\---

 

She's pleasantly surprised when their entourage meets up with Dorian, coming from Amaranthine, at the junction where the North Road joins the Pilgrim’s Path some distance northwest of the Keep itself.

“I wouldn't miss this for the world, my dear,” he tells her. “It's all terribly exciting. The dresses! The food! The flashing of swords in the light of the Chantry candles! The screaming of a hundred souls as you burn them to a crisp!”

Kethra stares at him, one brow raised.

“You _do_ know this is my wedding you're attending, right?” she asks him. “Or did you misread the invitation as ‘heathen blood ritual orgy’?”

Dorian scoffs. “Don't be ridiculous. I know quite well what the occasion is. But I also know _you,_ and considering your luck, I expect a rift to open and suck you into the Fade just before you say your vows, and then we'll have to crawl through the debris of our nightmares before we can proceed with the nuptials.”

“It gladdens me to know you'll be crawling right along with me.”

“Who else would it be? Well, your dashing groom, perhaps. I hear he's a rather good fighter. But he certainly won't know to stay out of your way in a fight, and even if he did, he wouldn't do it half as stylishly.”

She laughs. “You're assuming I'll make it all the way to the altar in the first place.” She blows out a harsh breath and admits, quietly: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Oh,” he says, empathy flashing in his eyes. To his credit he only pauses for a moment before he says: “Well, in that case, I can burst through the Chantry doors and dramatically halt the wedding just before you say your vows. I’ll spirit you away in your ridiculous court finery, and then we’ll run away to Tevinter, chasing the sunset on the back of a magnificent stallion.”

Kethra throws her head back in unabashed glee, the most carefree laughter she's had in weeks.

“Promises, promises. Careful, I may just take you up on that.”

“If you do, I’ll thank you to inform me in advance. I’ll need time to find a suitably handsome steed. And the tacking needs to match your jewelry.”

She laughs. “You’re the best, Dorian.”

He winks at her. “Don’t I know it.”

 

\---

 

Bull lets out a low whistle as Kethra and her honor guard ride into the Vigil’s courtyard, the rest of her Inquisitorial retinue a few paces behind, towing wagons with their trunks and supplies.

“Big place,” he rumbles. “Think they’re compensating for something?”

Cullen pipes up from her other side. “Aside from the whole summoning a demon army a couple of years ago, you mean?”

“That was just the Orlesians, wasn’t it?” Krem calls from a little way behind. “Personally, I think it’s all to distract Her Worship from the prevalent smell of wet dog.”

Kethra just shakes her head in amusement, but inwardly she’s grateful for the diversion.

“Hey Boss,” Bull calls to her, “This guy you're marrying, he's a Warden, right? Like, a real one?”

“He's not impersonating a dead one, as far as I'm aware.”

“Ouch,” Thom calls out good-naturedly from the rear. “Low blow, my lady.”

Bull grumbles at the interruption. “So he fought in the Blight, right? He killed the dragon?”

“From what Leliana tells me, no. He didn’t personally stab the Archdemon. But they fought a regular dragon in Haven, I think. Leliana says he killed that one.”

“But it’s kind of the Wardens’ thing, right? Killing Archdemons in dragon bodies?”

“I suppose.”

A pause.

“Shit, that’s hot.”

Kethra snorts indelicately. “If I’d known you were so enthusiastic for this alliance, Bull, I’d have had Josie draft up the marriage contract in _your_ name.”

“Maybe not for the entire deal. But if you need me to cover for you during the honeymoon, Boss, just give me a call.”

“What, and miss the best part of this whole thing? And Cullen, I swear to the Maker, if you make another Warden stamina joke, I’ll—”

Sure enough, Cullen, about to say something, instead presses his lips shut into a smile. “Wouldn't dream of it, Inquisitor,” he lies smoothly. “I was merely going to say that it would have been a sound enough plan, if only the horns, extra two feet, and rippling muscles didn't give it away.”

“You do him a disservice, Commander,” Krem interjects. “Chief's impressive rack could give any tits-over-ass man a run for his money.”

Bull grunts his displeasure. “Thanks, Krem.”

They dismount, the five of them handing off their horses to the stable hands before they're ushered into the keep. Arl Teagan and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden greet them in the Main Hall with amicable smiles on their faces.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Aedan Cousland says, bowing respectfully in the custom of the court. “It pleases me to see you've arrived safely.”

“You honor me with your welcome,” she replies, executing a perfect curtsey.

“Er, yes,” Teagan says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I had hoped to have Alistair honoring you with his welcome as well, however…”

Kethra straightens up, feels Thom and Bull tense up instinctively behind her, both of them recognizing the familiar tells of her preparing for a fight. “Is something the matter?” she asks coolly. Aedan snorts indelicately, earning a glare from Teagan.

“Well, the truth is that Alistair is…” Teagan exhales slowly before finishing: “Missing.”

“Missing?”

She hears the creak of leather behind her, Thom and Bull's hands tightening on the grips of their weapons but making no move to draw them. Yet.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Teagan,” Aedan chides, grinning. “He’s not _missing,_ per se; it’s more that he's… hiding,” he finishes, slightly apologetic and thoroughly amused.

There's a moment's awkward pause before Kethra says, blankly: “He’s… hiding.”

Teagan winces with the distinct air of someone who is utterly put-upon. “Yes.”

“Oh. _Well._ That’s…” She doesn't know what to say to that. Her childhood etiquette lessons didn't cover _How to React When One's Intended is Hiding from Your Upcoming Wedding._ “Good,” she finishes, and at Arl Teagan's perturbed look, she adds: “That he’s not missing. Missing for real, I mean. And he's probably safe. He _is_ probably safe, isn't he?”

“Oh, yes,” Teagan assures her. “He’s likely somewhere within the Vigil’s grounds, if not within the keep itself. Worry not, my lady, he'll… turn up soon.”

She nods, and lets Aedan herd her and her honor guard to their quarters as servants bustle to bring in their belongings.

“You’re welcome to explore the castle as you wish, Lady Trevelyan,” Aedan tells her. “I only ask that you not leave the grounds, for now.” She nods her assent. “Morrigan’s here, somewhere. Kieran too. You’ve been acquainted with them, yes?”

She nods absently as they stop before a door that he indicates is hers. She lets herself in and turns to see Aedan bowing lightly to her from the threshold.

“I’ll leave you to rest – or explore, if you prefer,” he tells her. “And if you happen to see Alistair – well. Deal with him as you will, my lady. He is – or will be, anyway – your husband.” He winks at her, and she finds herself at ease in his presence, something she hadn’t expected from the famed Hero of Ferelden. She smiles, bowing slightly in return as he gently shuts the door. When she hears his footsteps recede in the hallway, she finally allows herself to take a sharp inhale as the anchor flares painfully for the third time that day.

 

\---

 

“Stop!” the cook, Meryt, cries behind him, and Alistair grins, tucking his spoils tighter to his chest as he runs faster. He turns the corner only to all but crash into a woman he's never seen before.

She catches herself against the wall, and he stops, worried that he’s hurt her. “Are you alri—”

She opens her eyes, and it occurs to Alistair how close they are, and how compromising their position is – her back to the wall and him crowding her against it – when he realizes he can count the iridescent flecks of green in her hazel eyes.

“Wait!” Meryt rounds the corner, clutching her dirty apron in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “Give that back! That's for the banquet later, that is!”

He snaps back to reality and pushes away from her, still a little dazed. “Really sorry about that!” he tells her again before he bolts, grinning, almost to the library door; if he can just reach it and lock it he'll be free, at least for the afternoon—

Except he suddenly finds his boots encased ice, and the frozen things that were once his feet lose traction on the stone and he slips and hits the floor, _hard._

_“Ow,”_ he murmurs. “Andraste's bloody _ass,_ that _hurts.”_

He gets up on his knees just in time to see the strange woman stride up to him, a triumphant look on her face and the ghost of a spell still on her fingertips.

“I’ll not have thieves sabotaging my engagement banquet, thank you very much,” she says, her voice low and even and dangerous. “Not if I can help it.”

And everything clicks then, and Alistair thinks, _oh, so **this** is Inquisitor Trevelyan._

If he had to rank the strangest first meetings he's had in his life, this wouldn’t even make the top ten, but it is _definitely_ not how he expected to meet _his future wife._

In keeping with the mood of the moment, his first words to her are: "I think you broke my nose. My face is ruined now. Ruined, I tell you."

She cocks an eyebrow at him, and seems ready with a smart retort when Meryt finally catches up to them.

“You’ll be the death of me, you will. Sneaking into the kitchens at all hours to nab some cheese,” she scolds him. “You may be the ruler of Ferelden, Your Majesty, but the kitchens are _my_ domain. Hand ‘em over.”

Grumbling and still unable to get to his feet on account of the frozen boots, he relinquishes the spoils of his latest foray into the larder and watches Meryt head back to the kitchens, muttering under her breath all the while.

His nose still hurts and he's now lost all of the cheese that he'd managed to hoard, but the horrified look on Kethra Trevelyan's face when she realizes just who he is almost, _almost_ makes up for it.

 

\---

 

Josephine is going to _kill_ her.

All those weeks of lessons on proper ladies’ manners and courtly etiquette, and the first thing she does upon meeting her intended is _freeze his boots._

“Oh, Maker,” Kethra says. “King Alistair, Your Majesty, I am so, _so_ sor—”

“Yes, you should be,” he says. “I have it on good authority that my nose was my best feature. And now you have to live with an ugly husband. You must be feeling very sorry for yourself indeed.”

She cycles through a number of emotions – disbelief and amusement and exasperation, before she settles for apologetic and sheepishly dispels the ice coating his feet.

“I think a broken nose gives one more character,” she says ruefully. “Although I don’t think it actually _is_ broken.”

“Feels like it,” he announces good-naturedly. “You ever had a hurlock bop you on the nose? Feels like that.”

“I… don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure, no,” she says, amusement growing and changing into something suspiciously like fondness, which – considering their _impending marriage_ – isn’t so terrible, really. “But I could heal it, er, that is—if you don’t mind?”

“I could think of a few things I’d mind more than having a broken nose mended with magic.” He wiggles his feet, still in his sopping wet boots. “Go ahead.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she mutters, washing a light healing spell over him, taking satisfaction in watching the light bruising fade away. “There,” she says. “All done.”

She offers him a hand to help him up and delights in the roughness of his touch – a far cry from the pampered nobles she's used to dealing with. He’s a warrior – a Warden and a hero, and she thinks to herself, _she could do worse. A **lot** worse._

“I _am_ sorry about the—” and she gestures helplessly toward his boots dripping puddles on the stone floor.

He barks a short laugh and says: “Gives a whole new meaning to cold feet, doesn’t it?”

And then he smiles at her, and she’s absolutely done for.

There’s something terribly charming about a man who can laugh about having his boots frozen off.

“I’m Alistair, as you might’ve guessed,” he says, before kissing the back of her hand that he still holds in his own. “Pleased to meet you, my lady. Regardless of the circumstances.”

“I assure you the pleasure is mine,” she mumbles, suddenly shy, before her inner Josephine-voice shouts _: Confidence! Coyness! Charm your way into his good graces, Inquisitor!_ and she finds it in herself to add, teasingly: “Although I’m sure we could have avoided this embarrassment if you’d just met me at the door.”

Alistair blinks, uncomprehending, before his face blanches as realization dawns. “You’re here,” he says, voice a little high-pitched. “Which means you’ve already arrived some time ago. I am so— forgive me, my lady, I completely lost track of time. I didn't mean—” He groans. “Oh, Maker, Teagan is going to _kill_ me.”

She laughs at his evident distress. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she reassures him.

“You’ve spoken to him?” he asks, a hopeful look on his boyish face.

“Oh, yes,” she says, grinning.

“And?”

“He says _I’m_ free to kill you, should I wish it.”

“Oh,” he says. “I, er, don’t suppose you’d… wish something else then? _Please?”_

She smiles. “I’d wish you wouldn’t be similarly unavailable for our engagement banquet later, if it’s no trouble.”

“Of course n— wait, what time is it?”

“Just past four bells, I believe.”

“Four be—” he sputters, and she works to suppress a grin, finding herself even more endeared to this stranger who would be her husband.

“Perhaps you should start getting ready, Your Majesty?” she says, gesturing to his plainclothes and his still-sopping boots.

“Right,” he says, already making his way backwards down the hall. “I’ll do that, and then I’ll _not_ be late to the banquet, you’ll see—” he bumps into a vase on a pedestal and only just manages to catch it, and Kethra giggles – actually _giggles_ – at the sight.

“I _told_ them vases on pedestals were a bad idea,” he mumbles, “but _nooo,_ of course I wouldn't know anything about interior decorating—”

He smiles when he sees her hiding her grin behind a hand, and gives her a playful salute as he disappears around the corner.

 

\---

 

Alistair manages to be early to the banquet, a fact that makes him feel inordinately proud.

“Look at you,” Aedan teases. “Early for once. Not even married and she’s already made a better man of you, good for her.”

“If only I could say Morrigan did the same for you,” he replies, grimacing, to which Aedan glares, and they spend a moment making gargoyle faces at each other before they dissolve into helpless grins.

Alistair elbows his friend playfully and says, “So where is that witch? Shouldn’t you be off playing family man?”

“My _wife_ is trying to explain to Kieran why asking the Orlesian noblewomen _‘Why does your hair look like a pride demon?’_ is rude.” He snickers. “And anyway, shouldn’t _you_ be playing the dashing groom?”

“Kethra’s not even here yet.”

“Oh-ho,” Aedan laughs. “So it’s _Kethra,_ is it? You move quickly, my friend, I always knew you had some debauchery in you—”

Alistair pushes at him good-naturedly, and Aedan, being Aedan, pushes back. It would have devolved into a shoving contest had Kethra not walked into the room at that moment.

And it’s not like he hadn’t _expected_ to see her dressed up, but the reality of it totally _floors_ him; she looks so different with her hair done and her dress implying all kinds of curves that hadn’t been obvious when she was in travelling gear. She walks with her arm threaded through Leliana’s, her head held high – a woman with power and aware of the fact. But when she catches him staring, she smiles, shyly, like she had when he’d kissed her hand.

And she looks— _beautiful,_ for lack of a better word. If he’s being honest, he’s at a complete lack of words at the moment. Vaguely, he registers Aedan chuckling beside him.

“I know that look,” the other man says, snickering. “What are you waiting for?”

Alistair blushes. “It seems a little silly, doesn’t it? I mean, we just met this afternoon—”

Aedan laughs. “You told me I had the exact same look on my face when we met Morrigan.”

“Which was even _less_ understandable,” Alistair says, “because it was _Morrigan_ —”

“Go _get_ her already,” Aedan says, pushing him in her direction.

He stumbles, but thankfully he manages to stop just before crashing into her, and she reaches out to grip his arm to help him regain his balance. He thinks he hears Leliana laughing quietly as she discreetly makes her exit.

“We should stop meeting like this,” Kethra says, smiling, and he’s helpless but to smile back at her.

“My nose and I completely agree.”

She laughs as she threads her arm through his and leads him to the food table at the far side of the main hall. “Come on, let’s find those cheeses you almost stole. I know you’re probably still bitter about having to give them back this afternoon.”

And then she smiles at him over her shoulder, and he thinks he might be in love.

Kethra is easy to be around; she navigates the nobles’ talk gracefully but not submissively, a trait that he can wholly admire.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Lady Inquisitor,” an Orlesian with a nasal voice tells her in a thinly-veiled sneer. “This party is very grand; it reminds me of Orlais. I’ve heard they do it a bit less… _extravagantly_ in the Marches, do they not?”

And Kethra just smiles and says, “Oh, yes. Less frilly cakes, for one. Less spritzing of floral masking scents, for another. My mother used to hold her parties open-air, you know. Our Orlesian guests always complained that the air was too… _fresh.”_

“Open air!” the noblewoman exclaims. “How marvelously _quaint.”_ She fakes a laugh, the sound grating on Alistair’s nerves.

“Indeed,” Kethra deadpans. “How we Marchers manage to go through an entire party without a lady or three dramatically fainting from the heat is appalling.”

Alistair barely manages to bite back a laugh when he says, “Excuse us, Lady Noisome, we should attend to the other guests.” And then he pulls Kethra away and leads her to the side door, where they can slip out into the battlements unseen. He finally bursts into guffaws when the door closes behind them.

“It’s a good thing you got us away when you did,” she grouses. “I just might have set her hair on fire.”

_“How marvelously quaint,”_ Alistair says in his best Orlesian falsetto, and is gratified when she snorts indelicately. “I had a feeling you might need some _fresh air_ after that particular conversation. And the battlements here always have a nice view.”

She hums, smiling, as they walk the Keep’s ramparts, and it occurs to him that this is the most private moment they’ve had since that first bumbling meeting. When he glances at her she is looking at him sideways, a silent laugh dancing between the flecks of green in her eyes.

“Er, lovely night, isn’t it?” he says.

She does laugh, then, but his embarrassment at his social ineptitude abates when she glances at him shyly, a blush across her cheeks.

“Are you nervous, too?” she asks, and he latches onto the _‘too’_ with relief.

“Oh, _definitely,”_ he admits with a chuckle. “Throw some darkspawn at me any day, no big deal, but this _marriage_ thing…”

“You’re saying you’d rather fight darkspawn than marry me?” she says, smiling cheekily.

“What?” _Oh, it **does** sound like that, doesn’t it? _ “Maker, _no,_ I just meant that I’d never been married before. As you probably know. But I _have_ helped stop a Blight, and fighting darkspawn is easy, just run them through, _die,_ _darkspawn, die!_ , but you can’t do that with the person you marry. Well, maybe _you_ would.” She laughs, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. “Not that I’m saying you _should,_ you know, but Leliana’s told me all about your _reputation_ —”

“You’re horrible, you know that?” she says between giggles.

“Oh, yes, Morrigan tells me so _all_ the time—”

“You know,” she says, taking his hand, causing a worrying thump in his chest. “I wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea, but I don’t think I mind this whole marriage thing so much, after all.”

“Oh,” he says, his mouth curving in an involuntary grin. “Good.” He squeezes her hand.

And then she hisses, green light crackling across her palm and up her arm.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately concerned.

“I’m fine,” she says through clenched teeth. “Although I think we should return to the hall now. They might be looking for us.”

“But—”

“It’s nothing,” she says, too hastily to be believable. He frowns at her, not fooled in the least. “It’s fine,” she says, attempting an encouraging smile. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Come on, let’s go.”

He lets her lead him back, but an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach and refuses to go away.

 

\---

 

In the handful of days leading up to the wedding they find moments to spend time with each other, in between all the fittings and preparations and that one spa day Vivienne insists is _absolutely_ necessary.

For an hour one morning he takes her to the kennels where the few requisite hounds he’s brought are staying – _the King of Ferelden can’t go anywhere without at least several mabari, you know,_ he tells her – and she laughs at that, and when she lets them lick her hands he tells her he’s absurdly grateful that she’s not one of those prim-and-proper Orlesian nobles with upturned noses that so often visit his court.

She smiles at him, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

One afternoon she drags him to the library and shows him a book on Ostwick, and he listens attentively as she tells him about the high double walls, the salt-smell of the port, and the famous Ostwick pastime of racing cheese wheels down a hill.

“That is a _terrible_ sport,” he says, horrified.

“It’s tradition!” she insists.

“It’s a waste of perfectly good cheese, that’s what it is. That’s practically a crime—”

A loud knock interrupts them, and the door opens to reveal Aedan, shifting nervously, with a troubled expression on his face.

“I think you two need to see this,” he says seriously, and motions for them to follow.

 

\---

 

The three of them make their way through the winding hallways until they reach a small room in the keep’s basement, guarded by both Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike. Aedan knocks softly, and the door opens to reveal Cullen and Leliana standing guard inside while Morrigan paces in front of a strange, glowing mirror.

Beside him, Aedan crosses his arms, looking faintly apologetic.

“Please tell me this is some kind of joke,” Alistair says, but however much he blinks, the eerie mirror doesn’t disappear.

“If it is, it’s in rather poor taste, don’t you think?” Morrigan snaps. “And I doubt a simple prankster would have access to this kind of power.”

“What do you mean?” Kethra asks from beside him, turning to the sorceress.

“You’ll recall I mentioned this eluvian needs a key?”

“Did you lose it?” she asks.

“Of course not,” the witch scoffs. “I have the key, but _I_ certainly did not open it, so whoever did must have been extraordinarily powerful. Furthermore, when we entered the eluvian, I realized it’s been redirected. It still leads to the Crossroads, I believe, but ‘tis an entirely different area from before.”

“Wait,” Alistair asks, his mind still racing to catch up with all this information. “You already went in?”

“Morrigan and I went in to follow the blood trail—” Aedan begins.

_“What_ blood trail?”

“Well, there was a dead qunari—”

_“What dead qunari?”_

“Alistair,” Kethra interrupts. “I know this is all a bit sudden—”

“You don’t say?”

_“—but,”_ she continues, glaring at him. “This is important. So be good and let Aedan explain, yes? Good.”

Alistair grimaces, but stays quiet and nods for Aedan to continue.

“Some Wardens found the dead body of a fully-armored qunari inside the keep,” Aedan reports. “I followed the trail of blood it left and it led me to the eluvian, already active. I called Morrigan and we followed the trail inside and found that it leads to another eluvian – although an inactive one; it seems to require some sort of special key? Anyway, we entered _another_ eluvian that led to some kind of ancient elven temple, with a whole troop of qunari fighting their way through. There was a bit of scuffle – nothing we couldn’t handle – but we found something troubling.”

He hands them a crumpled note. Together Alistair and Kethra go over the contents quickly, their expressions shifting from disbelief to alarm.

“You can’t be serious,” Alistair says. “They’re planning on infiltrating Vigil’s Keep?”

“It’s a bit more troubling than that, I’m afraid,” Aedan says. “Leliana and I discussed it, and we think they’re using Vigil’s Keep as a gateway to the rest of Ferelden.”

“They’re planning to invade _Ferelden?”_ Kethra asks, incredulous.

“Not under _my_ rule, they don’t,” Alistair grinds out, suddenly angry. “I’m not about to let a horde of rampaging qunari trample through _my_ country.”

_“Our_ country,” Kethra reminds him, and when he glances at her she’s smiling slightly, before she turns back to the others, determined. “Leliana, send for Dorian, Bull, and Cole. Lady Morrigan, if it’s alright, I’d like you to stay here while the four of us prepare and brief us before we go.”

The two ladies bow to her in acquiescence, and Kethra’s already halfway out the door before his mind catches up to her meaning.

“Wait,” he says, lengthening his stride to match her pace. _“You’re_ going?”

She glances at him sideways. “I’m the _Inquisitor._ Investigating strange occurrences is my job.”

“And protecting Ferelden from foreign invasion is _my_ job,” he retorts. “I’m not going to let you—”

“I’ll be alright, Alistair.”

“But your mark—”

“I’ve got it under control,” she tells him, and shows him her hand, where the anchor lies dormant in her palm. “It’ll take more than this to kill me, you know. And you’re the _king._ Can you imagine what kind of upheaval will occur if something happens to you in there? So, no. I’m going, and _you’re_ staying _here.”_

He frowns at her, but she stares back at him, unmovable, and he relents with a sigh. “Not even married yet and you’ve already got me bowing to your whims,” he says, earning a small laugh from her. And before his reason can convince him otherwise, he pulls her close in a one-armed hug. “You’d better come back,” he says. “We never finished our talk on your weird Ostwick traditions.”

She hugs him back, briefly, her breath huffing against his neck as she lets out a small laugh.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

\---

 

When she _does_ get back, she finds Alistair in the library, still waiting up for her, hours after she entered the eluvian.

_“Before you know it,_ she says,” he teases as she approaches, still in her armor. “You know, we might need to clarify your definition of that.”

“I never said you had to wait up until I returned,” she says, but it’s said with a smile. She’s inordinately pleased that he has.

_“Rude,”_ he replies, grinning. “Here I am, foregoing my beauty sleep, and not even a single thanks to show for it.”

She collapses heavily next to him on the loveseat, heaving a sigh as she finally gets her weight off her feet.

“That bad?” Alistair asks sympathetically, and it’s the most natural thing in the world when he takes her hand and brushes his thumb over the anchor on her palm, sending green lightning skittering across her skin.

“Deep Roads,” she groans. “It’s good you didn’t come. You’d have hated it, I’m sure.”

“I can’t imagine why. Darkspawn, deepstalkers, the permeating smell of death, death, and more death? Sounds like a vacation,” he says drily. “Anyway, I’ve had worse. This one time during the Blight, we were stuck in the Deep Roads for _days._ Aedan led us around in circles and Oghren kept hitting on Morrigan. She almost roasted him a few times.”

“And how do you know _I_ wouldn’t just lead us around in circles?” she asks. “Maybe that’s why we got back so late.”

“The view would have been better, at least.” She laughs and slaps his arm playfully, and he grins at her, unapologetic, before his brow furrows in confusion.

“How did you end up in the Deep Roads, anyway?” he asks. “I thought Morrigan said the eluvian led to some kind of elven temple.”

“Morrigan’s eluvian leads to a bunch of other eluvians. We followed some qunari through one that somehow led to the Deep Roads.”

He hums, absentmindedly still stroking her hand, before he quietly asks: “Are you alright? Were you hurt?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” she reassures him.

“The anchor didn’t bother you?”

“It… acted up, once. It’s no big deal.”

“What do you mean, _‘acted up’?”_

“It was like it… stung me, kind of.” And then upon seeing his concerned expression, she hastily adds: “It’s nothing, really. Don’t worry about it.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but he says, instead: “You must be tired. I’ll escort you to your quarters; you should get some rest.” He grins. “Big day tomorrow.”

“It’s just a wedding,” she says flippantly as he helps her up. “Nothing to get excited about.”

“I was talking about _after_ the wedding,” he says cheekily. “You’re going to want to have your strength back.”

She laughs, unabashed, as they make their way through the halls, the sound ringing happily through the otherwise silent keep.

 

\---

 

On the morning of the big day, Alistair is just putting on the finishing touches on his ceremonial armor – the golden chain of office, the cloak with the embroidered Theirin crest, the family sword – when Aedan walks through the door, already dressed in his Warden armor, with an uneasy look on his face.

“One of the Wardens I set to guard the eluvian got into a scuffle with an elven servant who had this,” he says, handing him a scrap of paper. “I had some of my scouts translate it.”

“Does Kethra know?” Alistair asks, going over the note. “And who’s Viddasala?”

“As best we can tell, he or she is leading the qunari movement. And no, I haven’t told her yet. The women locked themselves in a room to help each other dress up, remember?”

Alistair sighs as he sits down heavily on the bed, staring at the innocuous piece of paper.

“If the leader is here, if he or she is close, then I don’t think we can afford to let them slip,” Aedan begins, slightly apologetic. “I don’t think Kethra will mind postponing the wedding for a few hours.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Alistair groans, running a hand over his face. “I… don’t want to let her do this, Aedan. She says she’s fine, but the mark… I think it’s getting worse. A _lot_ worse. And this whole eluvian thing certainly isn’t helping.”

_“I_ could go,” Aedan says. “I mean, if there’s an imminent qunari invasion, then I can’t just sit here throwing flower petals. Not even for you, my friend,” he says, cracking a smile.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this an hour before my wedding,” Alistair mumbles to himself, before he adds: “Wait for me. I’ll get my shield.”

“I’m not forcing you to come,” Aedan says, a little skeptical. “I mean, it _is_ your wedding.”

“What are you saying?” Alistair says, mock-offended. “That _I_ could just sit here having random screaming people throwing flower petals in my face while a qunari invasion knocks on my front door?”

“I’m saying maybe _you_ don’t want to disappoint your pretty bride by leaving her at the altar.”

“What? You think she won’t be _disappointed_ if a horde of angry qunari smoosh our wedding cake and she finds out I could’ve stopped it?” he jokes. “No way. We’re going. I’ll get my things.”

“I’ll get Morrigan.” Aedan pauses, before he adds: “Kethra will kill you, you know. Shouldn’t you give her some warning, at least?”

“What, like, _‘Hello dear, I’m just going to pop through a magical mirror to stop a qunari invasion, don’t start the wedding without me?’_ ”

“You certainly like to live dangerously, Alistair,” Aedan says, laughing. “Come on, let’s go save Ferelden again.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

 

\---

 

“I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve this,” Kethra tells Dorian as she inspects her appearance in the dresser mirror, while the other women finish dressing in the background, laughing in delight.

Dorian – who has, to their shared delight, agreed to be her man-of-honor – hums as he inspects a pair of simple topaz earrings. “Aside from closing the Breach and saving the world, you mean?”

She snorts. “For that, I think I deserve an entire harem of handsome men, don't you?”

“Oh, certainly. You ought to talk to Cullen; perhaps he’d be open to such arrangements. And that delightful Michel de Chevin as well, if you’re looking for more suggestions. Or Ser Barris, if you’re looking to keep it exclusive to templars for your sordid little mage fantasies—”

She squeals, embarrassed and amused, and slaps him lightly on the arm. “Intriguing,” she says, still smiling, “but you know what I’m talking about. I mean, it can’t really be this easy, can it? The whole love-at-first-sight thing only happens in stories, right?”

“Don’t be so disappointed. Not everyone can have a sordid slap-kiss forbidden romance from opposite sides of a war, like my fortunate self.” They exchange smiles, their own happiness bouncing off each other's, before his expression turns solemn. “But in all seriousness, my dear, if there’s anyone in Thedas who deserves this kind of happiness, it’s you.”

“Aww,” she coos, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you. You are the absolute best, Dorian.”

“And don’t I know it,” he replies, grinning. “Now, what about these?” he says, holding up the topaz earrings. “It’ll really bring out the brown in your— huh.” He pauses, scrutinizing her face, and she turns away, panicking a little.

He says, hesitant: “I could’ve _sworn_ your eyes were—”

“Topaz it is, then!” she says, taking the earrings and putting them on. “There.” She looks at herself in the mirror, before giving herself a satisfied nod. “All done. Come on, Dorian, we don’t want to be late to my wedding.”

He still looks concerned, bless his heart, but he doesn’t object as she leads her entourage out the door, all of them tittering in excitement as they merrily make their way to the chantry.

                                                                                          

\---

 

Meanwhile, the three heroes of the Fifth Blight stumble through the eluvian and into the ruins of a derelict library.

“Is this… the Fade?” Morrigan says, wonder in her voice.

“Oh, great,” Alistair groans. “Because that worked out _so_ well last time.”

Aedan crouches by the remains of what looks like an abandoned camp and picks up a dirty journal. “Is this… _Sandal’s?_ Was Sandal here?” he asks, incredulous, as he flips through the pages. “You know, I don’t really know what I expected,” he deadpans, chucking it back where he got it. “Come on, I think I hear fighting up ahead.”

He’s right, of course. There’s _always_ fighting involved.

_Still,_ Alistair thinks as a he hacks down yet another qunari. _It could be worse. It **would** be worse, when Kethra finds out._

Hell hath no fury, and all that.

He sighs as he parries a blow that would have run him through, driving the grey giant back to finish him off with a neat thrust, and starts commending his own soul to the Maker.

 

\---

 

Kethra storms into her quarters, ripping off her veil and kicking off her shoes, stomping around angrily while Dorian ghosts in after the wake of her fury.

“I cannot _believe,”_ she says, pulling off her jewelry and letting them fall with a series of clacks on the dresser, “that he had the _gall_ to, _to_ —”

She’s too agitated to open the delicate clasp of her necklace, and gives up with a frustrated growl, throwing her hands up in the air before letting herself fall face-first on the bed.

“Oh, don't fret so, my dear,” Dorian tells her as he nimbly undoes the clasp for her, before easing out the offending piece of jewelry from under her and placing it on the dresser. “All things considered, this is actually one of the more uneventful weddings I’ve ever attended.”

“I should think so,” she replies, muffled by the pillow, “seeing as there wasn’t actually a wedding.”

Dorian ignores her. “Tevinter weddings generally involve more attempts on the life of one half of the couple.” He rubs his chin. “It was rather to be expected, in fact. It was only considered exciting when it was the other half of the couple doing the attempting.”

“So I should plot an assassination, is what you’re saying.”

“You could, certainly. Shall we do this the regular Antivan Crows way, or shall I acquire the requisite slaves for the good old Tevinter Blood Ritual route?”

Kethra groans, flopping over onto her back. “Of all the things I expected to go wrong today, I didn’t even _consider_ getting left at the altar.” She sighs. “Dorian, I don't know what to do.”

Dorian hums, playing with the end of his mustache. “My offer still stands. We could still run off to the Imperium and live in sin.”

She cracks a smile. "It’s not living in sin if we aren’t having sex, Dorian.”

“Who says we aren’t? Not the inevitable rumors, certainly. I can hear it now: ‘Inquisitor, vanquisher of ancient Tevinter Magisters, herself brought low by another Tevinter Magister with better hair.’”

“And what about the Bull?”

“We can bring him along. It’ll fuel the rumors wonderfully. People will assume we’re having a sordid ménage à trois. If we play our cards right we may just end up ruling the Imperium together.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replies scathingly.

“It wouldn't be so bad, you know,” Dorian assures her. “You’re a mage, and a powerful one, and you’ll be respected for it. Feared, even. Which is a good thing in the Imperium, let me tell you. And in Tevinter we have these delightful little cakes, instead of these questionable meat pies they pass off as food here.” She laughs a little at that, and he smiles at his success. "And," he adds, "no smell of wet dog anywhere."

Her laugh is genuine, this time. “Sounds like heaven,” she says.

Silence falls between them, with Dorian stroking her hair comfortingly before she sighs and says: “I was nervous about this whole thing from the start, but – and this _still_ sounds silly, even to me – but I _liked_ him, you know? And I’d hoped— well, I’d hoped he felt the same. And that we’d have the chance to _actually_ get married before…”

Dorian’s eyes narrow as she trails off with a sigh. “Before _what,_ Kethra?”

She takes a deep breath before she admits, quietly: “The anchor’s getting worse.”

There’s a stunned silence where Dorian just stares at her in disbelief, before his face turns serious and he says, “Show me.”

Kethra takes off her glove, and an eerie green light fills the room as the anchor hisses and crackles in her palm. She grimaces, her fingers flexing involuntarily as pain shoots up her arm. 

“How long?” Dorian demands.

“A few months,” she replies, wincing as a particularly painful surge spikes up.

_“Months?”_  Dorian asks incredulously. “And you didn’t think to mention it? Kaffas, I _knew_ there was something off about your eyes. Kethra, why didn't you _say_ anything?”

“It’s not like anyone could have done anything!” she retorts. “Only Solas ever understood it, and he’s gone!”

_“Fasta vass,”_ Dorian bites out. “You still ought to have said something. Maybe I might’ve—”

The door opens suddenly, and Kethra quickly hides her hand in her lap as Leliana strides purposefully through the door.

“Inquisitor,” she says seriously. “We found Alistair.”

 

\---

 

“Well,” Aedan says, struggling to catch his breath as Inquisition soldiers escort – or rather, half-carry – them back into Alistair’s quarters. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair replies, falling onto his bed with a groan. “I think I’d rather face an archdemon. Much less complicated. As if real librarians aren’t terrifying enough; they _had_ to make demon ones? Really?”

Aedan laughs as Morrigan washes a healing spell over him.

“Hey, Morrigan,” Alistair calls from the bed. “How come you don’t offer to heal _me?_ After all we’ve been through? That hurts my feelings.”

“If you wanted a personal healer at your beck and call, perhaps you should have discussed this with your lovely wife-to-be, instead of leaving her at the altar,” she bites back, before smirking as her gaze moves to the open door. “And speaking of…”

“Alistair _Theirin!”_

Her cry cuts through the room, and Alistair groans.

“What I would _give_ to be swallowed up by an archdemon _right now.”_

“I would offer to turn into a dragon,” Morrigan says, “but I fear you would only give me indigestion.”

Kethra storms into the room like a tempest, still in all her finery, with a thundercloud-scowl on her face. Aedan ushers everyone else out of the room, closing the door behind them and leaving Alistair to his fate.

She stands for a moment there, quietly seething.

“The dress looks good on you,” Alistair offers tentatively, and she _explodes._

“What were you _thinking!?”_ He flinches, and she goes on: “Going through the eluvian? With only _two_ other people? What if something happened? _Maker,_ Alistair, what if you’d been killed?”

“You went in before!” he protests.

“With a team!”

“Aedan and Morrigan went in just by themselves the first time! And the three of us stopped a _Blight,_ if you’ll recall. I doubt anything short of a resurrected archdemon can off us _that_ easily.”

“You still shouldn’t have been so careless,” she says, beginning to pace. “What if something went wrong? Andraste’s _ass,_ Alistair, did you even _consider_ what I— what political fallout would result if something happened to you?”

“Nothing did!” he says, temper rising. “Look, I know you’re mad—”

_“I got left at the altar,”_ she snaps. “Mad doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it!”

“I just didn’t want you to go, alright? I _know_ it’s dangerous—”

“So, what? You risked yourself because you think I’m some delicate Inquisitorial flower? Maker’s _breath,_ Alistair, that is the _stupidest_ —”

_“I didn’t want you to get hurt, alright!?”_ he roars, leaping from the bed to face her just as she whirls around to fix him with a glare. “I knew you’d go yourself to look for Viddasala, even if the mark is killing you—”

“It’s _not_ —”

_“It is!”_ he yells, silencing her with his outburst. “It _is._ I _know,_ I’ve seen you— don't pretend it isn’t, alright? Just— _don't._ Don’t tell me it’s fine when it’s not.”

She stands there, stunned into silence, while he catches his breath and watches her scrutinize his expression.

“I’m… sorry,” she says, finally, and he’s a little surprised to find she means it.

“So am I,” he says, smiling sadly. “Running away without warning was disrespectful and unfair to you, and I’m sorry. It was really stupid of me.”

“Yes,” she says, smiling back slightly. “It was.”

“Yes, _thank you_ for that. Agreeing on something is a good start for a married couple, isn’t it?”

“Not that we’re actually _married,_ or anything.”

“We’ll figure that out when I get back.”

“Get back?” she asks, slipping back into suspicion. “Get back from where? Where are you going?”

“We found the keystone for the eluvian – the inactive one,” he explains as he gathers his effects once more. “And the password. I can follow Viddasala and end this.”

“Uh, don’t you mean _we_ can follow Vidassala and end this?”

He whips around to face her, eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Alistair—”

_“No,”_ he says. “Kethra, _please_ —”

“You said you didn’t want me hurt,” she says quietly, surprising him with a tender hand on his cheek. “You didn’t think that maybe I felt the same about you?”

He’d certainly _hoped_ so, but the years have taught him that not everything you hope for necessarily comes true. Through the tumultuous revelations springing up in his mind, he manages to blurt out: “You just want to make sure I don’t run off with some pretty qunari, don’t you?”

She laughs, and he feels her hand on his cheek grow warm with a healing spell that washes over him, knitting up his cuts and unknotting his muscles. “Two birds with one stone,” she says, and her smile is both forgiveness and a promise; they will see this trial through together, like all good couples do.

Even if they aren’t married.

_Yet,_ he promises himself – and her – as he follows her out the door.

 

\---

 

“Your hand hurts,” Cole says despairingly as they emerge into the Crossroads. “And I can’t _help.”_

“You _are_ helping, Cole,” she assures him, attempting to subdue the crackle-hiss of the anchor as it flickers wildly in her palm. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“You _still_ should’ve said something,” Dorian says crossly. “I might’ve… I don’t know. _Something.”_

The anchor flares, sending pain lancing up her arm. Alistair looks worryingly over at her as they stop in front of the eluvian to the Darvaarad.

“Maybe you should—” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“No.”

“But—”

“We’re going. Come on.”

Alistair touches the keystone to the mirror and speaks the password, and together the four of them stumble through.

The Darvaarad is dark, and qunari keep coming at them wave after wave, and each spell she casts seems to cause the anchor to seize up, sending pain all the way up to her elbow. But still she fights, she stumbles and gets up, she keeps moving because she can’t bear to think of what the qunari would do if she doesn’t.

She remembers, through the haze of the pain in her arm, that Bull had told her once what would happen if the qunari invaded Thedas. Cullen and Cassandra subjugated, but only if they didn’t die fighting. Dorian chained and bound, his lips sewn shut. Cole twisted against his purpose, if they didn’t kill him outright for simply being what he was.

She thinks of Alistair – imagines his spirit broken, his sunny smile wiped off his face, his strong back bent to the will of the Qun.

_But only if they didn’t kill him on the battlefield first._

She chokes on the thought, just as a particularly brutal wave of pain shoots up her arm, forcing her to her knees as they cross a stone bridge.

Alistair is there immediately, kneeling beside her, propping her up.

She hears him calling for help, feels Dorian’s hands wrap around her own, feels the waves of healing magic that does little to abate the flood of pain. She hears Cole talking, mirroring her thoughts, his speech slurring together in his agitation.

“Green, rising and falling, like lightning on her tongue. And then the lightning fades, black creeping in. _Let me rest. Let me rest. Let me slip away_ —”

Alistair jerks her harshly upright, pulling her from the half-sleep she’d slipped into, and the pain comes back and she _screams._

“Do something!” Alistair is shouting.

“I’m trying!” Dorian shouts back.

The pain is too much. Kethra starts to cry. Immediately Alistair’s hand is on her face, brushing away her tears. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers fiercely. “You’ll be fine. You can do this.”

She trembles as the pain surges through her, and then it builds up, suddenly, and it’s all she can do to push them away before the anchor bursts in a bright explosion of green.

When the flash fades, the pain recedes with it. She sits on the ground, breathing hard, as the others look at her with mingled fear and concern on their faces. She yanks off her glove and stares at the tendrils of green snaking up her arm, pulsing malevolently. She grits her teeth, tucks the glove in her belt and says, “Come on,” before she takes off down the stone bridge.

_It’ll take more than this to kill me,_ she remembers telling Alistair, and she doesn’t intend to retroactively make that a lie. So she gets up, she fights, she frees the dragon, she defeats the saarebas, she follows Viddasala through mirror after mirror after mirror after mirror—

—and finds salvation at the end.

 

\---

 

Alistair growls frustratedly at the last eluvian Kethra went through, now a dull red and mockingly inert.

“Let’s think about this calmly,” Dorian entreats. “There must be a way through.”

“There better be,” Alistair growls. “Kethra’s there. What if she’s hurt? The anchor—”

“It’s quiet,” Cole says suddenly.

“I should think so,” Alistair snaps, his patience wearing thin. “We slaughtered all the qunari, so unless they decide to come back as zombie ox-men—”

“No,” Cole says. “The anchor is quiet. He made it quiet.”

Alistair exchanges a glance with Dorian, who shrugs and shakes his head, just as confused as he is.

“Who, Cole?” Dorian asks, a bit more used to the boy’s eccentricities. “Who made it quiet?”

“Solas. He was worried the mark was hurting her, so he called her here to help her.” The boy smiles. “He always liked to help her.”

“So Solas really is here?” Dorian asks, surprised. “That’s good, isn’t it? If there’s anyone who can save her—”

“Wait,” Alistair says, trying to keep up. “You can hear them? You can hear her?”

“I can hear her hurt,” Cole replies. “But it’s quiet now, like I said.”

“So she’s alright?” he asks, frantic. “Or is it like… a bad quiet? Did this Solas hurt her more?”

“No!” Cole says, affronted. “He wouldn’t hurt her! He’s not that kind of wolf!”

“But…” And secretly Alistair wonders how Kethra manages to put up with this boy. “This Solas, he’s the one Viddasala is after? Is he the one who locked the eluvian?”

“He wanted to talk to her,” the boy replies, matter-of-fact.

“Oh, so that’s it? Nothing to worry about, then; he just wanted to have a nice chat over tea and biscuits while Kethra’s hand slowly kills her?”

“No,” Cole says. “He hates tea.”

Alistair wants to _scream._ Dorian places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, I think. If anyone can stop the mark from killing her, it’s Solas. He’s done this before.”

“So we should just sit here and wait even if we don’t know exactly what’s happening?” he snaps.

“It beats waiting at the chantry for a groom who didn’t show.”

“I— alright, I deserved that.” He sighs heavily, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“She’s a strong girl, you know,” Dorian reassures him quietly. “She’ll pull through.”

He doesn’t know how long they wait in silence in the little clearing, him pacing back and forth while Kethra’s two other companions watch him like an eerie tableau. But eventually the deep red of the inactive eluvian shifts back into a bright, blinding white, and Kethra stumbles through and promptly falls to her knees in a tired heap, the mirror locking once more behind her.

He’s at her side immediately, gathering her into his arms, and she presses her face against his neck as she tries to control her ragged breathing.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, glancing at the sickly grey cast of her arm hanging limp at her side. But she only shakes her head and retreats further into his embrace, until he feels drops of wetness falling against his neck. “Kethra?” he asks worriedly.

She sniffs, before she sighs and says, tiredly: “Take me home?”

And, tired as he is, he’s not about to refuse her, so he gathers her up in his arms and starts the long walk back, carrying her over countless thresholds until finally they emerge from Morrigan’s eluvian in the basement of the Vigil.

He walks past the relieved faces of Aedan, Leliana, Cullen, and all the Wardens and Inquisition soldiers who’d been standing guard in case they failed. The crowd parts to make way, and when they’re more or less alone he presses his lips against her hair and whispers, “We’re home.”

But she doesn’t answer, already asleep, her left arm dangling uselessly as he carries her to bed.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t know how long she’s been out, but she wakes up with her muscles feeling heavy from disuse. She glances around to take stock of her surroundings and finds herself in her room in the Vigil, dressed in a simple nightdress, with blankets up to her chin. To her right, Alistair is dozing in a chair, his fair hair lit up from behind by the sunlight streaming in through the open window.

Her voice comes out in a rough scratch: “You’ll break your neck, sleeping like that.”

He jerks awake, blinking in the harsh light, but then he sees her and he smiles.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore.”

“Really? We haven’t even got to the vows yet.”

She huffs a laugh. “You’re terrible, you know that?” She moves to sit up, but Alistair moves suddenly to sit beside her on the bed.

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Oh.”

The blanket falls down to pool in her lap, and she looks down at the stump of her left arm, now removed from the elbow down. Her face feels frozen in expressionless shock.

Alistair sighs, seemingly resigned. “Well, you… would have found out eventually, anyway,” he says nervously, while he gently takes her remaining hand in his. “They did everything they could,” he reassures her. “Dorian and Lady Vivienne and even Morrigan, if you can believe it. But eventually they agreed that it was… not salvageable.”

“I see.”

She’s quiet for a long, long while, and Alistair doesn’t say anything, just holds her hand and lets her take it all in. Finally, she takes a deep breath and says, weakly: “So does this put a damper on the whole _giving-you-my-hand-in-marriage,_ or…”

He laughs then, the bright sound ringing across the empty room.

“And you say _I’m_ terrible,” he says, chuckling. “And no, of course it doesn’t. I wasn’t planning on marrying you for the mark on your hand, Kethra.”

“Of course,” she replies. “It was for the vast resources and extensive political influence of the Inquisition, after all. No worries then, it’s all intact.”

“You’re impossible,” he says, shaking his head with a grin, before his expression turns serious. “I don’t at all mind pushing through with the wedding, but… do _you?_ Mind, I mean.”

She sighs. “I just—” she frowns, looking down at the stump of the limb that had propelled her to power the last two years, and says, her words speeding up in her nervousness: “I don’t see why _you_ wouldn’t. Mind. Because, well, however am I going to dance with snooty Orlesian ambassadors in court now? Or wave to our loyal Fereldan subjects while riding a horse? Or— or teach you the proper way to roll cheese wheels down a hill like we do it in Ostwick?”

“I could do without the last one, to be honest,” he says, laughing again. “And as for the others, well. We’ll make do. Together. That’s what married couples do, isn’t it?”

“Not that we’re already married or anything.”

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” he sighs. “Look, the short of it is: if you’re still willing, I’m game. More than game. Enthusiastically so, in fact.”

She looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and asks, a little incredulously: “So you’re saying…?”

He huffs a breath, as if trying to compose himself, before he plows on: “What I’m trying to say – rather terribly, if you’ve noticed – is that there’s no one else that I’d rather do this with. The whole ‘get-married-rule-Ferelden’ bit, I mean. I _do_ like you, and I hope we can make this work. Properly, this time.”

“What do you mean, _‘properly’?”_

“Oh, you know, flowers, sweets, serenading you terribly from below your balcony.”

She cracks a smile.

“And a ring, definitely. I’d get you a ring. Unless you’d prefer a dowry? Three goats and a sheaf of wheat, I’ll bring it to your advisers? But then again, you _are_ a woman of status, so I suppose half my kingdom and the head of a dragon I slayed would be more appropriate, let me just bring one of those out from the basement—”

She’s laughing now, damn him. “Alistair—” she wheezes out between giggles.

“—although, the ring would be _so_ much easier, please say you just want a ring—”

_“Alistair.”_

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, suppressing a giggle, “but is that a proposal?”

“A terrible one, but yes. I, Alistair, am in fact proposing to you, Kethra Trevelyan.”

“I hate to break it to you,” she says, waving the stump of her arm, “but I haven’t got a left hand for you to put a ring on.”

He grins. “So is that a yes, then?”

“I don’t know,” she teases. “Where’s my dragon head, first?”

“Don’t worry about it; I’m almost sure I have one lying around the castle back in Denerim. I’ll have the servants dig it up and send it over later.”

“Oh, no,” she says. “No deal. I got left at the altar once already, I’m not agreeing to anything without some kind of assurance.”

“But,” he sputters. “A dragon head? Are you sure you don’t just want a ring?”

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before they cut my arm off, huh?”

“Look, I’m sure we can find some kind of compromise. That’s a thing couples do, isn’t it? So. Ask me for something that’s actually reasonable, and I’ll do my level best to get it for you.”

She hums, pursing her lips in consideration. “Anything within reason?”

“I know you. We should probably clarify what’s within reason, exactly—”

“How about a kiss, then?” she says.

And he blushes and says: “What?”

She smiles at him, cheeky, and clarifies: “A kiss? Instead of a dragon skull? Is that alright?”

And Alistair laughs, blushing terribly, but he leans in anyway. He cups her face with one hand, but then he pauses and stares.

“Your eyes are brown,” he blurts out.

She blinks. “Beg pardon?”

“I—” he stutters. “Your eyes are brown. _Completely_ brown. I could’ve sworn—”

She stares at him, a little confused, before realization dawns on her. “Oh,” she breathes. “You mean they’ve changed back?”

“What?”

“The used to be completely brown,” she explains with a nervous little laugh. “Before the… well…”

“Before the anchor, you mean?” he supplies gently.

“They didn’t start changing until maybe half a year ago,” she says. “But yes. Does it…” She glances away, biting her lip, before she looks up at him anxiously. “Does it bother you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and then he kisses her.

It’s a little awkward, a little unfamiliar, but full of promise; she surprises him when she teases his lip with the tip of her tongue, and a faint growl rumbles in his chest. She smiles as he deepens the kiss, his mouth slanting over hers, his hands finding her waist, and they stay there, kissing in the warm sunlight, for a long, long while.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so the original prompt was: "The arranged marriage between the King of Ferelden and the Herald of Andraste turns out to be love at first sight," which was pretty straightforward, but then all that post-game canon got in the way and it snowballed from there, and so now you have Trespasser-in-Ferelden-featuring-Alistair-being-a-badass-in-the-Crossroads. Yeah. 
> 
> So, keita52: I hope this is even just a little bit like something you wanted! :)


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